Modern Day Cupid
by Notorious Introvert
Summary: In which Oliver believes that he and his 'brother', Arthur, deserve their happy endings with the French princes. Playing Cupid, he creates a solution to cause each of the proper Frenchmen to fall in love with them. What happens when his potion-making is brilliant, but his unfortunate victims aren't?
1. Chapter 1: Oliver's Potion

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or 2P!Talia.**

**Author's Note: Feedback is appreciated.**

**Summary: In which Oliver believes that he and his 'brother', Arthur, deserve their happy endings with the French princes. Playing Cupid, he creates a solution to cause each of the proper Frenchmen to fall in love with them. What happens when his potion-making is brilliant, but his unfortunate victims are not?**

**Modern Day Cupid**

All it took was another fairy's handful of rose thorns, two stir counter-clockwise, and another five seconds of brewing before Oliver found himself with his desired creation. The British man was swift to bottle up the contents of his cauldron before he even dared to celebrate, Adam's apple bobbing as each drop of the precious liquid was deposited into four vials. Although most would have been relieved and radiating exhaustion from the anxiety of such a staining mission, the young man was neither. Instead, he released a loud squeal of complete joy. "Oh! I was so certain I could do this!" he cried, looking over to his magical companions for their opinions. A pixie looked at him with only mild interest before continuing her grooming of a wing.

Oliver, far too in an excited state to notice, gathered up his four vials and placed two in the pocket of his sweater vest. The other half was settled under lock and key of his storage, a place rarely used due to his habit of having a potion blow up in his face rather than actually turning the precise color and texture it was expected to. In fact, he typically left Jean in charge of any magical mixtures that required brewing. "I did it! Aren't you proud, muffins?" the man gushed, trying to gather Chocolate Bunny into a hug despite the animal's obvious reluctance. "This is perfect... Now they'll never be able to resist us~"

The Brit's eyes locked onto an image of two blonds, both doing their best to keep a distance apart from each other without being scolded. One had lank, darker hair that was swept into an haphazardly made ponytail. He was scowling at the photographer, arms crossed in front of a pale dress shirt that screamed for an ironing almost as much as his wrinkled trousers. The other, brighter blond and wearing a grin that matched Oliver's at his best, was dressed impeccably with an impressive blazer and matching bottoms. His dress shirt and light scarf matched beautifully. Other than their physiques and few habits, there was one thing that the two definitely had in common.

Both were about to return the love of their British neighbors.

**||-||-X-||-||**

"Germany, Germany!" cried a loud Italian voice. It wasn't a rare occurrence, so the majority of the surrounding nations hardly paid any heed to Northern Italy's frantic cries. The worlds personifications continued with their discussions, most light and friendly rather than economic; "Save the politics for the meeting room," they would comment. "Germany! H-he's in my seat!" North Italy wailed, running an abundance of laps around the lobby as though his life depended on it. "Fratellone!" Finally finding somebody in his comfort zone, even if it was the foul-mouthed elder Italian, Italy clung on and began to sob.

"R-Roma! Roma, he's in the meeting room, and he was sitting in my chair, andthenhelookedupatmeandsmiledIdon'twanttobechased withthegunsAGAINRomaI'msc-"

"_**Veneziano, shut your damn mouth and stop spitting on me!"**_ South Italy growled, doing his utmost best to tear the younger man off of him. Spain was quick to jump up and try to calm the twins, but his cheer up charm only worked to further encourage Italy's frightened sobs. "Roma, Roma, he's going to kill me this time! And he'll probably try to poison the pasta again!" It took North Italy a few moments to realize that his brother had gone still, the room had gone silent, and even Spain's cheer up charm had ceased. "….Roma, I think I broke everyone!"

**||-||X-||-||**

The beginning of the meeting started out in a very tense atmosphere. France, the **other **France to half of the nations there, had made it rather clear that his kind were having a joint meeting. When asked why, it took the joint efforts of Sweden and America to keep Germany from the other end of a hidden dagger. After that, all of the nations had taken their seats quietly.

"….Well~! It's lovely to see all of your darling faces again!" the other Britain, Oliver, chirped when it was his turn to speak. "I just adore the smiles! Before I begin, won't you all have some tea?" The pale man waited for a chorus of weak confirmation from the original nations before starting right on serving out his delicate china. With twice the customary amount of nations, this task seemed impossible to accomplish before recess.

"Please, allow me to help you," Japan offered, standing from his seat. When met with gratitude rather than any sort of sadistic treatment, other nations followed his example. In sufficient pace, Japan, Finland(and, by extension, Sweden), Canada, and both Britain represents had managed to serve each nation of tea cup. Next came the actual tea, which Oliver insisted to pour by himself, and the extras, which Finland cheerfully set in careful distance from each other so that everybody would have access to their creams, sugars, milks, and syrups.

Nobody noticed the bit more of attention Oliver placed on two Frenchmen's drinks.

"Thank you all for your assistance and/or patience! I have nothing else to say!" The Brit sat down and giggled before he took a long sip from his cup. Most would have lunged at the man had it been anybody but one of their very deadliest. Oliver kept certain to keep an eye on each and every nation until he was pleased that they had all at least tasted the drink.

Jean skipped his turn, sneering at North Italy when the innocent man had whined that he was never permitted to not participate in meetings. France stood up next and began to speak of his own concerns, but it was some time during his speech that he found something.. queer to rumble in his lower stomach. Pausing in the briefest of moments, he simply shrugged it off. "As I was saying.."

"Your time is up, next." Though he absolutely detested anything that Jean had to say, France sat down. His many tumbles with his counterpart never ended well for him, and he wasn't looking to be caught in Arthur's garden yet again. Speaking of which, the Brit was next to stand up and start presenting. Arthur's voice was never too pleasant to his ears, but.. There was something about it that meeting that made it, dare he say, desirable. If it were a bit higher in pitch, in any case.

Beside him, he could feel Jean twitch to attention, and the man's fingers were soon on his shoulder. It wouldn't have been as terrifying if his counterpart's touch was iron; as it was, his hand was almost gentle. Francis shuddered. "What is it, mon cher?" he whispered, gazing into Jean's face with a mildly goofy confusion."Trade seats." Francis' eyebrows neared his hairline, but he supposed it wasn't too odd of a request. Most of the nations from both worlds knew about the **other** Britain's fixation on Jean, and he knew that Oliver did succeed in capturing a seat beside his sweetheart the time around. For some reason he didn't comprehend, the thought annoyed him. "Of course."

When Jean was properly settled between Francis and Arthur, the Brit had already finished his presentation. He seemed confused when he noted that the two Frenchman had switched places but said nothing about it. Oliver gawked at his new neighbor; was this how Jean expressed his romantic interests? Keeping as far as possible? In that case, the potion was really unneeded! Just the thought sent butterflies to Oliver's stomach, and he made small keening noises. They startled Francis, who turnt to his neighbor and felt the bottom of his stomach drop out from under him.

When did the Brit become so breathtakingly beautiful? When did his eyes suddenly twinkle appealingly rather than in a simply cute manner? When did Oliver's giggles seem to soar from between his lips than erupt, and when did Francis find himself starving to hear even more of them? These feelings and a thousand unexplainable more overwhelmed the blond, something that hadn't occurred so abruptly since his teenage years.

Francis , ever the romantic, wondered in a bizarre trance of mind if this was the infamous love-at-first-sight. Not the gradually building love he longed for, not the brief utterly infatuated love he found himself in on occasion, not the false attraction he saw so many others in, but love that made him want to hide his face in a pillow and cry over. It was so unexpected that he was struck flustered when the recess was called and Arthur was shoving rudely at his head.

"Oi, France! You said you'd pick up on our next luncheon, and I'm holding you to it." The crabby man seemed uncomfortable as several nations looked their way and immediately turnt to spread more of that gossip rubbish about. They could all sod off in his opinion. "Well?" Arthur didn't wait for an answer before he took the blond by his ear and began to lead the way towards the exit.

He wasn't oblivious to a pair of eyes trained on his back the entire time.

**||-||-X-||-||**

Jean had felt it going down. Something was in his drink, but then again, Oliver nearly always laced his tea with some sort of arsenic or aphrodisiac; the Brit claimed that it was arousing when he survived any hazards or resisted a sexual stimulation. The blond waited for something to happen, but his body seemed at ease for once. This was worrying.

Never had Oliver's drugs been unable to be diagnosed the moment they reached his tongue. Casting a suspicious glare at the sashaying Brit, Jean decided that he should wait for a possible side-effect before hopping to hasty actions. "I have nothing else to say!" Thinking of the devil, it seemed that he was finally finished wasting their time. Jean skipped his turn.

The man beside him, _Francis_, had stood next and began to speak in one great rush that was mostly about their parking arrangements not being kept. Aggravated by the topic seeming to be purely unproductive, Jean snapped that his turn was over. The darker Frenchman looked at his doodle of two swords when his heart gave a sudden lurch, as though he were about to be ill.

"If I could have your attention, I'd like to draw thought to.." That voice. British, but not ugly and pixie-like such as Oliver's. Without hesitance, Jean commanded his counterpart to trade seats with him so he could reach the owner's words with more ease. What was this..want? This desire?

Britain looked at him queerly, earning nothing out of his carefully apathetic expression. Of course, Jean didn't lift his gaze for anything, even if it made the other have a bout of discomfort. It seemed that the man, was his name Arthur?, was glad to escape his unrelenting gaze at recess time. Not once did Jean's eyes waver from watching Arthur and Francis leave, even as a sort of ice-hot, bubbly feel went through his stomach at seeing the Brit touch his counterpart.

"Hello, Jean~" Where were they going? A restaurant? A cafe? "I was thinking.." No name was dropped.. "Do you want some lunch? I brought.." They couldn't have gotten too far yet, correct? "Maybe a picnic!" Oh, Oliver was there. The blond looked at his companion and had an idea.

"Oliver," he grunted, receiving a far too attentive response. "We are going out for lunch."


	2. Chapter 2: Foreshadowing Mess

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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"Excuse me, dearie?" Oliver could have swooned had he not been so immersed in shock. The potion was brilliant if his beloved was asking him on a date already! Failing to realize that Jean had his attention focused on the doorway rather than his head turnt away in bashfulness, the British man pressed a tender hand to the other's shoulder. Nothing could ruin this moment. "Of course! Oh, Jean, I k-"

"Silence." Jean stood up, giving his companion an irritable jerk of the head. "Come." The Brit was only too happy to obey these brief commands, sliding his arm around the Frenchman's as though Jean was leading him off on a date. Which, in his mind, was exactly what was occurring.

**||-||X||-||**

Francis sighed loudly. It should have been a wonderful day. The sun was alight in the sky, his suit was still impeccable, enough people were 'admiring' him, and Britain had even insisted on being taken out for their luncheon recess. However, something just felt off to the blond man. He felt a yearning feeling for..something that he couldn't quite name. But he desperately wanted luncheon to end and the meeting to continue.

"Oi, beard-face! You aren't even listening to me, dunderhead!" Roused from his thoughts, the blond looked across the table to see an agitated Arthur glaring back at him. Seeing this as no threat, Francis simply quirked his lips into a smile. "Salut, mon beau~ Were you speaking? Perhaps revealing your inner, special feelings about such a handsome, dashing, charming prince such as myself?" The words danced out without much thought, and they held about half of the usual purr that laced through them. For some reason, the Frenchman didn't feel his typical need to tease Britain when there were more troubling urges to handle.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the elder European. Something about France was off... He hadn't tried to touch the Brit the entire time they were together, and he wasn't even taking over conversation as he was prone to doing. It was a faint hope that Francis was getting better about considering the feelings of others, but then Arthur also noticed that the bearded blond wasn't even focused on their table conversation. Which, to be honest, was simply Arthur rattling on about the unexpected, 'blood-lusting savages of _that world_'.

"Oh, piss off, France. You know how I feel about you." There, better to scoff it off and see if France was attentive enough to take the bait he was given.

"Oui, but the question is if you know how you are feeling about me?~ For your body and I have spoken, and we agree that you are so deeply in denial, it is no wonder you consider _that_ vest paired with _those_ socks any fashion statement beyond evidence that the British have no sense of style." Francis took a sip of his coffee, seeming more at ease as the caffeine slid down his esophagus to settle in his digestive system. The Frenchman wore a smug look that he was aware infuriated Arthur, at least resembling his usual self more now that the Brit dragged him out from troublesome musing.

"I've told you plenty of times, my body doesn't even glance in your direction!"

Just as the Frenchman was preparing to battle that claim, the door opened with a small tinkle of a bell, and a dagger whizzed right by his head. When it dug into the wall, four single pieces of blond shined from the piercing point. Jean sneered at his cowering counterpart, taking up the space on the other end of his seat. "Worm. Britain."

"Oh, Jean!~ I wanted to sit next to you!" A gasp of delight. "Artie-kins!" Oliver crammed up right beside his own counterpart, rivaling Francis with his complete disregard for the personal space of others. "And Francey! It's so nice to see you two cupcakes!" He released a giggle, apparently immune to the looks of venom that Arthur continuously shot in his direction. His eyes were all on Jean, simpering in a manner that the generally apathetic man found repulsive.

However, Jean wasn't giving his attention to Oliver. He was looking at Arthur with apparent disinterest, those dead eyes trained on a point just out of the emerald ones that clouded in suspicion. Something about Arthur was just calling to his senses. Forcing him to crave ridiculous scenes with this unfortunate Brit that really was just as annoying as Oliver in his own way. However, the Frenchman couldn't seem to find anything unpleasant about him for the time being.

"... Are you going to just stare at me for the rest of the time, or are you two going to order?" Arthur snapped, flickering his eyes towards Francis as though it was the charming man's fault for their uninvited counterparts to join them during luncheon. He didn't miss out on Francis' gaze, which he trailed back to Oliver. Something akin to rage boiled in his lower stomach.

Jean's horrible smile was jagged and shark-like. "Do you plan to do something about it?" Oliver's smile flickered. Jean didn't smile often, not even when on the hunt for vengeance. Oh, but he did look so handsome with a change to the expression.. If only he was looking at somebody who could fully appreciate the new addition. Such as Oliver.

"Excuse me?" Arthur barked, fingers holding on tight to the underside of his chair. "You know, I've boiled many a frog in my day. None living, mind you, though I imagine that can be arranged."

"Angleterre, please! Calm yourself." Francis shot a look of disdain at the irate British man. "We are in valuable company! Oliver, mon beau, whatever could I order for you?~" The Frenchman rested his chin atop an open palm, and his eyelids became heavy in an attempt to appear more seductive to the pale man. He decided that there was a simple reason the Brit had so suddenly caught his attention(and romantic interest, though that was to be weighted). It must have been destiny.

Destiny brought them together, destiny caused him to fully appreciate the smudged make-up that Oliver insisted on coating his delectable body in, and it was destiny for him to have this sweet British man that Jean obviously didn't spoil as he should. And, to fulfill this destiny, Francis already began to formulate a plan for his dearest Oliver.

Oliver looked at Jean quickly. Surely he'd react to the flirting that Arthur's France was doing! However, a mere glance at the two bickering men was enough to convince him that the Frenchman wasn't even paying attention. He was too upset to notice Francis coming over to his side of the table until the Frenchman was bending over to speak to him. "Oliver, why do you possibly appear so unhappy?" His hand snatched up a vulnerable one, a thumb brushed over the knuckles.

The Brit could have burst into tears right then. His potion hadn't worked.

"Such a sad face does not suit an angel of your beauty, mon chou!" Francis really was so nice, though. "Oi, France! Leave him be!" But he did belong to Arthur. "Angleterre, this does not concern yourself. Return to the fight of tongues with Jean before the sexual tension suffocates us all~." Or perhaps he didn't.

Arthur seethed from where he sat. Francis was chatting up the idiot at his side, Jean was assaulting him in a verbal manner, and Oliver was simply harping about. The Brit stood up and threw down enough marks to pay for Francis' coffee and his tea. "Come on, France," he growled. Francis wailed as Arthur fisted the front of his suit, effectively wrinkling it and stretching it out so that he was forced to follow for minimal damage.

The two men from the _other_ reality were left behind, one in his thoughts and the second gazing at the first.

"... Remember my dagger before we leave." Jean lifted a menu to read.


End file.
